


History In Lieu of Proposal

by TriffidsandCuckoos



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: But maybe also talk about your feelings, Erik Has Feelings, Fake Marriage, Future Fic, Genosha, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, If you want it then you should have put a ring on it, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, News Media, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-X-Men: Days of Future Past, author puts preferred x-men canons in a blender and serves over fluff, not dark phoenix compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21720736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriffidsandCuckoos/pseuds/TriffidsandCuckoos
Summary: During the trial of Magneto, Charles Xavier announces that he's married to Erik Lehnsherr. This isn't actually true but they both make a good show of it - for a while.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 20
Kudos: 128
Collections: Secret Mutant Exchange 2019





	History In Lieu of Proposal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bocje_ce_ustu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bocje_ce_ustu/gifts).



> Due to marriage legalisation issues, this fic is set somewhere in the future of the X-Men films (via the DoFP Best Ending), and thus you are free to imagine either aged-up McAvoy and Fassbender or Stewart and McKellen. I haven't seen Dark Phoenix so while Genosha does feature in this story it's inspired more by comics-verse.
> 
> Literally saved on my computer as 'MarriedButNot'.

Charles Xavier is the face of the mutant peace movement, a respected public figure to many even before he came out as a mutant and set the media ablaze. He’s considered a symbol of tolerance; proof that mutantkind can integrate, that the terrorism history has witnessed does not have to be the only way. Regarding his school, nobody can get any answers beyond praise of the general student body, but that has not prevented him from intervening in all manner of situations where violence and misunderstandings have broken out. He’s been proposed for the Nobel Peace Prize twice, and, while he turned it down both times, in both cases he came out with the sort of inspiring statements he’s known for, the vision of a better future.

As a result, it’s something of a surprise when, on the witness stand at the trial of Magneto, he announces that he’s married to Erik Lehnsherr.

\---

“Of all the moronic ideas, Charles – ”

“It certainly altered their opinion of you, Erik. Very favourably too, I might add.”

“Not as much as it did for you.” Erik rubs at his wrists, the marks of the plastic handcuffs. Considering they’re custom-made, it seems reasonable to consider any design faults a personal insult. One of these days someone will think to blame the plastic particles in the oceans on him as well. “We agreed we wouldn’t be tied together publicly, Charles.”

Charles sighs, not impatiently. “You can stop saying my name like that, _Erik_. It’s done. Besides,” he goes on, running a hand back and forth on the wheel of his chair without pushing, “I’d hardly say this makes us _tied together_. You’re free to return to Genosha, if you can convince Emma to give it back. I’ll be at the school. The same as before – just, hopefully, with less property destruction and contravention of UN regulations.”

“And a new certificate on the wall.”

“Aged appropriately, of course.” Charles nods. “No need to hang it up though. So long as it’s there if someone asks.”

‘Aged appropriately.’ Erik wishes he would struggle to remember the details of Charles’ statement, but unfortunately it’s probably emblazoned on his mind for the rest of his lifetime, sure enough that Charles could probably see it from across the world. According to his testament, the two of them have been formally committed since it was legalised in the UK – first a civil partnership in 2005, then marriage in 2014, “although,” Charles had added with a wink to the jury, “we might have been somewhere in the background in New York.” ‘All private’, obviously, given their public personas and the added tension of mutant relations on top of homosexuality. One or the other was bad enough; both would have invited scandal. Charles claimed he would have kept it secret for longer, if not for the trial and his having been asked by both prosecution and defence to speak out. 

There’s a snag though, just a small one but the kind of thing a court would presumably care about: it’s not true. Any of it. In 2005 they met for drinks in Charles’ Oxford; 2011 a careful supervision in New York (not of Erik, unless you counted making sure he didn’t murder the filth who considered their opinions of greater worth); 2014 Oxford again, coupled with an impromptu kidnapping to a small seaside cottage on seeing the bags under Charles’ eyes. Any mutant who cares to scan their minds might find the meetings, only without the alleged formalities. Charles is one of the most powerful telepaths in the world – despite Jean’s struggles, Erik can’t fault his friend for the slight relief at not being alone anymore – but Erik is decidedly not.

“Appropriate memories as well?” he asks wearily. Generally Charles respects his need for privacy, but Erik accepts this necessity.

Charles looks up, eyes wide. “Of course not,” he says, managing to even sound offended. Possibly he is. Erik does try not to dwell too long on what Charles might or might not be feeling. “Good God, Erik, I – No! Besides,” he goes on, looking more and more as if he might levitate out of the chair and out the window, “telepathic ransacking is illegal, you know that.”

“And that’s known for stopping people, is it?”

Mercifully, Charles’ face relaxes again, eyes slightly narrowed and eyebrow raised, the familiar exasperated default. “Please hold off on the lawbreaking for a few years. For me.”

Erik would love to answer with a witty rejoinder, except that ‘for me’ burns itself in alongside the rest of the day and stills his tongue. 

Instead he reaches up and tugs at the front of his hat. “As you wish, old friend.”

“Husband.”

“If you like.”

_He_ would like. _He_ has never let himself consider the possibility as anything other than the faintest of hopes, and he has never had much use for hope. Trust Charles to bring that into his life again, enough to ruin everything.

\---

Charles does not appreciate the confetti, the balloons, or the cake. If Raven ever cared about his opinions, this might be enough. Instead he’s left stifling a smile at her ridiculousness, rolling his eyes as she asks about anniversary dates and whether he accepts gift cards.

“I don’t need gift cards, Raven.”

“Right, right, rich,” she agrees. “But I don’t know what else to get you. What says ‘congratulations on your fake anniversary’?”

“Raven.”

“Does it still follow the gold-diamond pattern? Which one are we counting from anyway?”

“ _Raven_.”

“It has to,” Jean pipes up from the other sofa, where she is supposed to be writing a paper. “Otherwise we have to make up a new system. I’m not doing that.”

“Nobody’s asking you to,” Scott says, with an arm around her and snuggling closer. Sometimes Charles wonders about reprimanding them for – what’s the phrase Kurt’s picked up – ‘PDA’, except he knows it’s selfish and he can’t really begrudge them the happiness. They’re still mutants, with their own troubles to boot, so let them have this.

_Don’t take it out on us,_ Jean thinks to him. _I didn’t force him to be male, any more than you did with yours._

_No spying,_ he admonishes automatically, even as he says to Raven, “We will be doing no such thing. This is an agreement, that’s all. Unless you want to also give gifts for the anniversary of the school, which I would far rather you did.”

Raven sighs dramatically, pushing her shoulder against Hank’s as if that will somehow lift his attention from his screen. The real miracle it’s that he’s up here at all, the lab humming away floors below without him. “There’s no fun in _buildings_ , Charles. You don’t even let us do your birthday. Why can’t we have this?”

A snort from the doorway. “Chuck’s got a birthday?”

Charles glares at Logan. “No smoking.”

“S’not lit.” Logan takes the cigar out of his mouth and wiggles it back and forth. Not for the first time, Charles questions the decisions which led to him thinking Logan’s presence in a school would be a good thing. He’s earned his place a thousand times over but he never ceases to drag on Charles’ nerves at inconvenient moments. “Why are we talking about birthdays?”

“We’re not,” Charles says, at the same time Raven says, “We’re talking about his anniversary.”

Logan’s eyebrow quirks, the familiar shorthand for a great deal of internal laughter. “You’re going ahead with all that, then? When’s the hubbie visiting?”

“I,” Charles announces, “am going to my office.”

He wheels out past Logan with all the dignity and grace he can muster without actively projecting the thought into their heads. They keep on talking behind him, Raven catching Logan up and Jean possibly defending him or possibly flirting, you never can tell for certain.

In the safety of his office (not ‘sanctity’, he’s not Hank), he lets himself exhale properly. It’s wonderful to see them all together, comfortable enough to tease. There had been a time when he would have happily given the world just for Raven to smile at him again; to have his sister back. The problem isn’t with her, it’s him – him and that artfully aged certificate hanging on his wall, alongside his graduation certificates and photos of the school body over the years. Remy doesn’t usually go in for forgeries, but he has enough contacts to more than make up for that, and Charles can’t deny that it’s a work of art in its own way. He’s sat here looking at it for long enough in the last year to know every mark and he can still let himself be fooled so easily.

Opening a drawer in his desk, he retrieves a small black box with a silver X embossed on top (presumably because why be restrained when you can be ridiculously overdramatic). Inside, nestled on red silk, is a ring. From a distance, it’s silver with a few artful engravings. Up close, you can find hundreds of intricate patterns and markings, not a millimetre repeated. He’d received it a week after the trial, with the note, ‘To keep up appearances’. Erik hadn’t visited personally, which Charles would have massively preferred to Emma rolling her eyes so hard he’d almost expected them to fall out of her head.

“I wanted to make sure, sugar,” she’d told him, the slightest of warnings before he’d felt her diamond-thoughts drilling against his shields. Just the memory brings a wave of nausea. Whatever she’d been looking for, though, she’d left with the overly-sweet smile which generally boded ill but not at the present moment.

He doesn’t wear the ring, not when it isn’t called for in public. It feels too much like lying. Charles is all too familiar with illusions; he doesn’t need to live in one himself.

\---

For all that Genosha is certainly more accessible for wheelchairs than Oxford, or any of the historical cities Charles so likes to visit (no matter that Erik can just lift him up should he so wish, when it comes to powers he extends the same respect to Charles' body as Charles does to his mind), Charles has never visited. Not recently, in any case, and not since it's started to come into its own as a country. Erik wouldn't say that this bothers him at all, since he doubts it's intended as a snub. Charles simply isn't at liberty to fly halfway around the world.

Charles does fly all the way around the world for peace conferences; particularly aggressive potential new students; a genetics symposium to make the keynote speech. He sends Erik messages when he does so, invitations for the last or simply informing him of his movements. (Erik does attend one symposium in Sydney where he takes great delight in dismantling the arguments of an alleged academic finding eloquent fantasies to replace the word 'eugenics'. He expected Charles to be angry but he can't remember the last time he saw his old friend look quite so delighted.) If Erik can leave, he does; if his country needs him, he cannot. Either option brings its own pangs.

"If you must be a loyal dog," Emma complains, "could you at least choose one thing? I'd rather not expect a migraine every time the post arrives."

Emma is cool and confident and only experiences migraines when it suits her aesthetically. Otherwise she passes them on with lethal readiness.

Erik does not respond to such comments. She does love to set traps, after all, and presenting such an inflammatory statement for him to bite at makes for a perfect example. Instead he focuses harder on parsing the communique from South Africa regarding a potential embassy.

"You've read that sentence five times, sugar."

"And now I have to read it a sixth." He points at the door. "Out."

Of course she doesn't leave; of course she raises a single elegant eyebrow and smiles sunnily to clearly convey he will endure her company for as long as she deems fit. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish you were more like the old married couple. At least they're happy."

'The old married couple' sounds sweet from anyone else. Unfortunately, it's all too common for Emma to savour those sorts of phrases for a different reason. It also doesn't help that Azazel especially dislikes feeling patronised, prone to violence even before you involve casting aspersions on Janos' character. Erik doesn't see what there is to feel offended about, although of course nobody is ever going to accuse him of the same in any sort of serious manner.

"They could if you asked."

Sometimes Erik misses how willing Charles is to keep out of his mind.

"'Willing' isn't what I would call it. 'Resigned', more."

Erik's hands tense around his tablet. He's never appreciated Emma's takes on Charles, not once throughout the time that he's known her, save for when he's needed that skewed view to justify the twisting in his stomach. All those years fighting each other, and it never got either of them anywhere. Isolation hadn't solved it either.

His eyes catch on the ring glinting on his finger. Those had been his idea, something to better sell the lie Charles had trapped them in. Not the greatest inconvenience, of course – at least it shouldn't be, and therefore Erik wouldn't let it. Charles definitely doesn't need to know that Erik even wears his without witnesses from the outside. Erik knows he could take it off any time, put it away or even on display as a reminder of how easily humanity can let itself be fooled, and Emma wouldn't just ignore it but applaud the action wholeheartedly. Instead, pathetic creature that he is, he lets it shine on, darker and plainer than Charles'.

"I had been expecting something more," Charles had said, the first time they'd seen each other since the trial, almost two years on as they both made the effort to visit an exhibition of historic chess sets in St Petersburg. Visas were a small matter for Charles' trickery (Charles could smile innocently with those wide blue eyes all he wanted, Erik knew the sort of deviousness which lay beneath and he liked it very much indeed), whilst Genosha bothered itself very little with western politics and thus enjoyed an almost concerning level of welcome. Erik hoped his country wouldn't end up a trophy wife by the end of the trip.

At first Erik had panicked, eyes darting to Charles' hand, the intricate band he'd spent a week perfecting, needing something to work on at night, something to calm himself. Only the finest, he'd thought. Not enough?

And then he'd noticed Charles' gaze rested not on his own hand, but Erik's fingers resting lightly on the armrest of his chair.

He'd stretched those fingers awkwardly, wriggling them, before moving to tuck them away into his pocket. Charles had stopped him, catching his hand and drawing it to eye level. "After mine," he'd said, "I'd assumed you'd…"

Erik had absolutely no idea what Charles had assumed. Charles did not seem inclined continue. "They don't have to be elaborate," he'd said. "I'm sorry if you were expecting something dripping in diamonds, but Emma does hate to be upstaged."

Charles had smirked. "She does indeed," he'd said softly, still not letting go, still looking, lips noticeably pursed. "A shame they don't match, though. The sort of thing that leads to comment at parties, I understand."

"As if you've never been involved," Erik had said, trying to look away, focusing on the chessboard in front of them, inlayed with gold and silver whilst people had starved in the streets. "Would you have preferred something simpler?" Perhaps he had spent too long on it. Perhaps he had been too obvious.

"Certainly not. I just wish you'd given yourself something so fine."

It's Charles' fault that Erik's ring now mixes in other colours. Charles doesn't need to know that the brass comes from a shared hotel room in Milan; a thread of stainless steel from his chair; lead from a bullet, just another bullet and nothing special but symbolic nonetheless. Sometimes it satisfies him to watch them shifting, and think of Charles' smile.

\---

Perhaps it would have been easier, calmer, if there'd been no truth behind the lie.

If they had simply been old friends, the way they called each other; if this had been the great sacrifice of an assuredly heterosexual man, willing to endure the slings and arrows in a last gambit.

The funny thing was that was exactly what some people had thought. Those who had clearly previously never considered Charles to have any kind of sex life, present or past, suddenly found it necessary to think about how _straight_ he had to be. It had been marginally entertaining for all of five minutes, before not-so-slowly declining into the weary disgust associated with any joke taking such liberties. A prominent senator had even drawn Charles to one side at a party shortly after the verdict and made several concerted attempts to get 'the truth' out of Charles, for all that Charles didn't even have to be a telepath to see that the man's trustworthiness could only be measured in negatives.

'Convenient.' Yes, it had been convenient in that moment. Convenient to gamble that Erik wouldn't blanche; wouldn't do anything to spoil it. That part of Erik was still capable of remembering motel bedsheets, long evenings arguing flowing easily into short nights of much less talking. Erik has never mentioned it directly since Cuba, and Charles has gladly followed his lead. Heaven only knows Charles would have suffered enough problems, let alone the parade of adjectives Erik already sported which somehow encouraged people to be so free with their opinions inside their heads.

Having Erik in his life is what mattered, of course. Always.

Not that he does – have Erik in his life, that is. Petty to complain after all this time, not to mention that in the last decade they've seen each other almost once a year and that's fairly unprecedented for the two of them, but at this rate he’s liable to end up a reclusive bitter spouse. Miss Havisham or Mrs Rochester, he isn’t sure which. It probably depends on how he looks in a white dress and the flammability of Erik's attic. Not that he thinks Erik has an attic, given Genosha favours practical architecture, but Charles does like picturing the menacing master of magnetism pacing around a gothic mansion with cape flowing freely. Such a setting certainly suits him better than Charles.

It's the letters that set him off – they always are. Telephones, e-mails, all manner of technology and Erik still prefers to write by hand, with global postmarks and scrawled scribbles as if he lacks the patience to think about what he's saying. One missive and Charles is left swooning pathetically - at least that's how Raven puts it, and offering more flattering alternatives would mean admitting that she's right.

\---

They spend their third anniversary together.

It's a complete coincidence, more the fault of the airlines who leave Charles stranded in Singapore overnight. Erik is in the area (only a few islands away) and insists on helping.

"I can wait one night, Erik."

"Of course you can," Erik tells him with a smile as they leave the neon-bathed hotel.

"I'm not a damsel in distress and you are not kidnapping me."

"Not even for old times' sake?" Yorkshire. He misses Yorkshire. Incessant rain and sheep and the cottage owner should have paid _them_ for all the repairs they’d carried out. "I'm sure I could grow a moustasche for the occasion."

Charles snorts. "I might almost let you do it, just to see that. You'd look _dreadful_."

"You never know, the refined look might suit me." Erik strokes finger and thumb over his upper lip. "Besides, one of us has to hold up the hirsute end of things."

"Fuck off," Charles tells him with relish.

From there, they pass a surprisingly pleasant week together. Erik keeps waiting for Charles to say he has to leave, to get back to all manner of appointments; he never does. In the end, he asks because he can’t keep waking up tense that this might be the last day.

Charles looks surprised across the breakfast table. “There’s that convention next week, in Wellington,” he says, as if everyone has such considerations in their calendar. “I assumed you’d be interested, and given I already missed the flight, it wouldn’t hurt to keep my carbon footprint down.”

Of course. Convenience and duty to the greater good.

“I’d be delighted.”

And he is, in his own way. Philosophical conventions make for good arguments and Charles on fine form in front of a crowd which appreciates him for his mind. Besides, there are…other advantages. The performance.

"Hello, husband," Erik relishes announcing in the foyer, with administrative assistants still cowering in his wake.

Charles' lips seem to be fighting something, some twitching urge that clearly takes a great deal of effort to subdue. Erik wishes he wouldn't. "Hello, Erik."

"Careful, Charles," he says, sending a glance around the room at those gathered in such a neat little circle around them. "People might talk."

"That's all people do." _Sometimes they think, too._

_Never enough._ An idle fancy flashes through Erik's mind, the type of unconscious thought which makes telepaths quite such a nuisance, when they hear the kinds of things you shock yourself with. He knows that Charles hears it because his face twitches just slightly and he leans his head casually against his hand as if he has to give it some very serious thought.

Then, to Erik's surprise, he nods. Very subtly, but it's there, and so is the smile.

So Erik has to act on it. He leans in, trying desperately to appear casual, and brushes their lips together. A show for the crowds – not precisely the show they might have been hoping to witness but hardly their last choice. It should have lasted for only a second, the warmth of Charles' lips familiar despite how long it's been. As if they're both men in their twenties once more, the Twist on the radio as Erik complains and Charles calls him a relic in between his laughs and neither of them is quite sure who moves first, the only thing mattering is that they move together.

Sense memories are such strong things. The weight of what's tugging at Erik, such a relatively short relationship half a century ago. Charles' scent altered with fashion and age, yet still there, still filling him.

It's just the memory. He begins to pull back, until Charles' hand finds the back of his neck, push-pulls, and there's an open mouth under his own, open and searching. Not as desperate as before, the skill there but perhaps a little rusty, yet Erik has the most bizarre notion that he recognises it as sure as a penstroke.

Charles releases him. It takes Erik a moment to realise it, until the chill seeps through his skin. He pulls back and the chill spreads.

"Yes, it has been a while," Charles says. "Now, I'm speaking at the first panel after lunch. Do you want to join me? Should serve to shock them all out of their well-fed stupors."

Erik does not sway on the spot. He may not be Magneto anymore but he remains himself, unwavering, the iron and steel of Genosha. Neither does he lick his lips. He does look around once more, to see their audience now talking amongst themselves too quickly, traces of blushes here and there, others bustling away. A few have the air of those who would greatly like to air their outdated and ill-fashioned opinions. Erik looks at them and they melt away into the crowd will scowls of impotence.

"Erik."

"I'm happy to sit in, Charles," he says, still watching after them. "As for whether I speak, I'd like to hear what everyone else has to say first."

"That's rather a change in attitude for you."

"You don't know what I might say afterwards."

Charles' eyes sparkle the same way they always have done. "I look forward to being appalled, old friend."

They go their separate ways soon afterwards. Charles has connections to renew and create; Erik has corners to haunt and gossip to overhear. They don't attend the same panels – a shame, really, there are some shocking opinions about globalisation and its inevitable support of the arms trade which Erik is happy to commentate on to Charles throughout – and yet Erik is so very constantly aware that Charles is attending as well. It's there when people stumble over his name, not just something beginning with M but also what might follow 'Mr'. Sometimes he catches people glancing to his side as if they expect company; others are far less subtle, quite obviously speaking to Erik only because he supposedly has Charles' ear.

"Perhaps next time I can be your trophy wife," he suggests over lunch, when all and sundry clearly expect them to eat together, to the point that Erik hesitating for even an instant spreads an anticipatory silence around them. "Attend all of your talks, hang on your every word. Bring you tea and biscuits as needed."

"These conferences can be a lot of work," Charles muses. "That does sound rather inviting."

"I'm not your lapdog, Charles." _Or your wife,_ he thinks of saying, but the words have the sting of acid on his tongue. Charles' face twitches and Erik turns pointedly away, thinking of grand metal walls.

_Erik._

_Not here, Charles. Let's not be one of those couples who fight in public._

He attends Charles' panel. He lets the audience see how supportive he is, but when Charles glances in his direction, he does not get up to speak.

He leaves the moment it's over.

It's six months before they see each other again.

\---

However you spin the globe, the fact remains that he and Erik are on opposite sides – geographically now the philosophy has subsided into well-worn arguments which are notable for their thumbed edges rather than the spit of vitriol. It's not the idyllic future Charles had dreamed of so long ago, but he supposes he should be content.

He isn't.

Erik has made his position perfectly clear: a marriage of convenience, another little relic from the past to store alongside the letters. Between them lies far more love and warmth than certainly Charles' parents ever displayed, and neither one of them has any desire to get married again. Charles has all of his own space and his work, a situation which would have had his mother hissing with envy to say nothing of his father resenting any invasion of a mansion several storeys high. What he does not have is Erik – not in the evenings, not in the daytime. He encounters the X-Men's newest nemeses much more often than he does the original.

Genosha does have internet, mostly skipping over the landline stage. Charles couldn't say precisely why they're both so loathe to use it. Erik does tend to associate Skype with his old declarations on presidential lawns, he supposes, whereas Charles has been the old-fashioned sort for most of his life. Regardless of their reasons, he’s just glad Erik’s country has a decent mobile signal.

"Absolutely ridiculous, the nonsense they spout these days."

"Perhaps you should offer them elocution lessons," Charles says with a smile that Erik can't see.

"They don't need lessons, Charles, they need to experience the world before they announce that it's doomed." Charles is doing his best not to remember the name of the latest caped complainer who'd been spouting nonsense whilst holding the Statue of Liberty hostage. It was a very silly name for a 'cause' which held no sense whatsoever. Logan had refused to fight; Kitty, who'd gone along 'for some fresh air', had spent most of the affair laughing. It said a great deal when even Scott had resorted to a quick blast to the man's trousers, unleashing quite the scream.

Raven leans in through the open door. "The old ball and chain?"

"Goodbye, Raven," Charles says.

"Tell him he should think about motivational speeches. Or at least consultancy."

"I said _goodbye_ , _Raven_."

She smirks and waves nonsensically at the telephone before leaving him to it.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," Erik says, the laugh evident in his voice from continents away.

"I wish you would interrupt more often," Charles says, with more honesty than he prefers. He stutters a little over it, skidding on unexpected ice, before pushing on. "So, tell me about the trade delegation."

"There's precious little to tell," Erik says, and proceeds to talk for eleven minutes (Charles has a clock on his desk for precisely such an occasion) about a thousand inane details and perceived insults, and an incident involving a particularly poor joke which had left Emma restraining Janos' powers lest he send every plane in a five-mile radius into the ocean. Erik is describing the look on Emma's face, her incandescent rage and Janos' unrepentant stare, and Charles looks at the certificate on the wall and pictures Erik. Erik, leader of a nation. It sounds much grander than ‘headmaster’. Erik always has managed to ascend that way, defying all odds.

He suddenly wonders what it would be like to see Erik talking – here, in front of him, with the warm rush of thoughts and the sparks his emotions send into the air. For someone who insists on being a man of mystery, certain things have always been easy to read. Nobody feels things quite like Erik does, and Charles just wants to feel them along with him.

"Charles?"

Charles starts and the dream is gone. "Hmm?"

"I do hope I'm not boring you."

"Quite the reverse." Charles taps the table. "Do you miss it? Being the grand supervillain with those speeches and the cape?"

Erik is silent. Charles has no idea what he's thinking. Eventually he says, "Do _you_ miss the cape?"

He might be teasing, the usual banter. He might be deflecting. It isn't that Charles can't talk without telepathy, but it's like covering his ears or his eyes. This is as hollow as words on a page – worse, even, because at least then he can see how Erik is writing, whether his letters are jagged, the circles barely even ovals.

"I think we all do," he says, and sinks back in his chair as the words' hollowness rings out.

\---

Once, sat in front of Lincoln's statue again, they'd wondered what it would be like. If it ever happened.

"They'll never let us marry, Charles," Erik had said, and he hadn't meant the two of them specifically but Charles had felt his heart skip regardless. "The moment they know how to identify us, there'll be laws. Conventions. They won't want mutants breeding with their kind. They won't want mutants in their families."

"The world's already changing its mind about so many things," Charles had said, looking towards the monuments at the far end of the lake. "Who knows? Some day they might even let men marry each other."

Erik had scoffed, the sort of harsh laugh which drags out of his throat with claws. "Always dreaming, Charles."

\---

Genosha burns and Charles is halfway around the world.

Not truly burning, not gone the way he has nightmares about; just humans, humans who say Erik is a terrorist and this haven he’s building must be burnt down to send a message. They've attacked, and that's about all the news is kind enough to tell him. Another one of Erik's wars for Charles to worry about. Violence always finds him.

Charles has lessons to teach and pupils to find. He cannot vanish from his responsibilities every time Erik is in trouble, not when Erik is more than capable of defending himself and those nearby (whatever he fears), and especially not when Erik has made it perfectly clear that the two of them live their own lives.

That's why it's something of a surprise when the phone in his office rings, and it's a major news network.

He makes his apologies and hangs up, and immediately the phone rings again. Hank's head appears around the door shortly afterwards, and Charles can already feel the sparks of confusion as the various points of contact for the mansion are accessed and the first opportunistic journalist approaches down the drive.

"Professor Xavier, how does it feel to know that No More Mutants has targeted your husband?"

"Will you be travelling to Genosha soon, professor?"

"Would you care to comment on your husband's political affiliations, Mr Xavier?"

Charles has never been one to dwell on titles – not after he's earned them – but he's thankful for the last question as it offers an easy retort which leaves the journalist more focused on thinking a great variety of curses concerning rookie errors. Good. Let him learn something from all this.

As for the rest, well. Charles must think of something to tell them. Erik isn't the only one with a gift for public speaking, even if Charles is less comfortable with that branch of propaganda.

"Genosha is very much Erik's business," Charles says, unable to bring himself to repeat the word 'husband', much less the possessive pronoun they clearly expect of him. "We agreed from the beginning that we would respect the lives we've built for ourselves. I have no say in the running of Genosha and I wouldn't have it any other way."

"But aren't you worried?" this journalist asks, surprisingly young, not long out of college. Curious, Charles just lightly skims her mind, but she's thinking so quickly about how she needs this opportunity, the begging, the contacts, that it doesn't take any more than that. This is her big break, potentially. It's too bad he doesn't have the story they sent her for.

"Of course I'm worried," he says, with a calmness which is only surface level. It's only the pictures on the news which have confirmed that Erik is still alive, despite Genosha’s central square being levelled. He hasn't called. Charles shouldn't expect him to. "But Erik has far greater matters to worry about right now than my fussing." He tries to smile, and when it fails he has to endure with it anyway.

The woman – Betty – hesitates, biting her lip, then makes far too much of a show of pausing the recording. "I'm sorry, maybe it isn't my place," she says, "but – are you alright? Because this – this doesn't seem like something that would be...'fussing'." She glances at the door, behind which Jean and Scott and Ororo are coordinating the standard response whenever mutant and/or Erik violence is involved. Funny to think of them like that, as adults, when he still remembers having to protect them. Not that he’s ever stopped. "Do you have anyone you can speak to?"

"I'm speaking to you."

She giggles a little, high and quick. "Well, yes, obviously, but – I remember when my aunt died, her wife was a mess, and I know he's alive but it just seems like..." She bites her lip again and Charles can see the distress in the family, not knowing quite how to talk to this person who was part of them and yet that one degree removed. "You shouldn't be alone, when someone you love is in trouble."

Someone he loves.

Charles smiles, genuinely kindly this time, and reaches out to pat her hand where it rests next to her phone. His ring glints but he can’t look at that. "I appreciate your concern, truly," he says, focusing enough to add a wave of reassurance, subtle enough that she shouldn't question it too deeply. "But Erik has survived worse. It will take far more than this to break him, I assure you."

If he sounds a little proud, he can't really help it, and he can't say that he'd take it back either.

\---

"A pretty little piece, wouldn't you say?"

"Not now, Erik." Charles sounds tired, not sleepy but just weary of talking. Erik should let it go. He looks at the laptop screen again and he can't.

"You need to work on your grieving, Charles, it doesn't come over at all in the picture."

"She added all that stuff and you know it, Erik. You've met journalists."

"Not as often as I should have." The people who write about Erik, they don't tend to trouble themselves with small matters such as face-to-face encounters and his own words. "Still, it does read rather poetically in places."

"Erik – "

"'Every inch the man who wishes to appear unmoved' – "

"Yes, I've read the piece, Erik, and suffered through several dramatic readings, so you don't need to do the same."

It really is a lovely piece, in its own way. Sentimental, ascending into tugging at the heartstrings. Quite bereft of serious journalism, of course, but you can't expect much of these fluff pieces. Erik's actually impressed by the background Ms Brant manages, the overview of recent mutant-human relations and the rise of this latest hate group. If he's not mistaken, the soppier sentences are more the fault of the editor than the writer. He knows the type. Easier to assign this sort of thing to women, then edit freely.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, Erik?" Charles asks. "It's no time to be awake, over there."

"There's always work to be done, Charles," Erik says, ignoring the fact that he's doing precisely none of it now. Hearing Charles' voice is more important. "Besides, the view from the public does seem to be that I should check in more often on my beloved husband."

It’s only a little bit stilted. The silence from the other end of the line, he suspects, is not due to that.

"Perhaps I should have anticipated this."

"The media circus which follows me wherever I go?" Erik asks, raising an eyebrow. "Really, Charles, anyone would think this was a terrible idea."

He thinks Charles makes a sound at that, but it could have been anything really, it's over so fast. More silence. "Do you think so?"

"About what?"

"That it was a terrible idea."

"It served its purpose, and admirably so." Erik couldn't have schemed something better if he'd tried (although he can't say the same for Emma). "If you're hoping for a divorce, do you think you could wait until this situation has blown over? We could do without the negative publicity, splitting from a media darling and all." He's not even certain what he's saying. He's staring at the screen – Charles by the window, looking out on the garden, flowers Erik hasn’t seen in years because his timing has never quite lined up – and his thoughts are moving too fast to follow. Such a relief Charles can't hear them.

"Is that what you want, Erik?"

Erik has no idea what he wants.

"This was a fine plan, Charles, but perhaps we should discuss some of the finer details going forward. Should another incident occur."

"Yes, well," Charles clears his throat, "I suppose we should when we have the chance. But I'm afraid I have a class to teach now – " somehow, despite the time difference, Erik doubts any lessons commence at 34 minutes past the hour " – and you should sleep."

"Of course." Erik feels he should say something. "Try not to fill up their heads with too much nonsense."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Charles says, and Erik would like to say that his voice sounds tighter, or rougher, but he can't trust his own judgement.

\---

The trouble with announcing your (false) marriage in an international court of law is that it does rather lock you into it.

It isn't that they'll arrest Erik the moment a divorce is mooted (that would be ridiculous, Charles knows this even as he stares at the ceiling at night). They won't arrest Charles either, for perjury or anything else they care to call it. Presumably it would operate as a celebrity divorce – and that isn't a comforting thought, not in the slightest, the circus around Genosha was bad enough and in that case there'd been an actual disaster involved (something he had to remind reporters of constantly).

It wouldn't undo Charles' aims in announcing the marriage in the first place, but it would draw precisely the kind of attention they could both very much do without. Most of the world seems happy to ignore it, after all, either deeming it not relevant or just too awkward to deal with. Neither of them changed their name; they're rarely seen at public events together, and Charles wouldn't dream of insisting otherwise. If anything, they're further apart now. Perhaps that's Charles' paranoia, this itching he has sometimes when he sees Erik at a distance and a single thought is all it takes. Just, now there's this other layer to their performance in public. It used to be so simple. It used to be their own issues, without everyone else playing spectator and commentator at once.

Thinking of a neutral territory takes time. This isn't something to discuss over the phone. Charles is willing to shield his own telepathy if it means he can see Erik's face, his hands, his eyes. Compared with the interviews on the television, it's been too long since he spoke to Erik properly.

(It would, he thinks, be easier if they actually were married. Then at least they could have some privacy with each other.)

Half the world, it seems, belongs to either one of them. The rest is, ironically, too much unknown – Charles would like to explore Australia without associating it with the potential breaking of his heart, or visit Everest without thinking he'll end up the latest casualty on the news. (Not that Erik would kill him, but literally flying off in a huff and leaving Charles miles from any civilization would amount to pretty much the same thing.)

In the end, he suggests Paris.

Erik doesn't even wait to refuse by letter. Instead the phone rings. "Why?"

"Good morning, Erik," Charles says, eyes flicking to the clock on the wall specifically set for eight hours ahead.

"Good evening," Erik replies, snide as ever when he wants to be. "Why Paris?"

"It is good to know the postal service is functioning better than expected. I didn't think my letter would get to you before next week."

Possibly Erik says his name. It's a little hard to make out words when it comes out growled in that manner. "Why Paris?" he says again, enunciating to the point of incoherence.

"Lovely scenery. Interesting history." Charles leans to the side, checking the door is properly closed and not in imminent danger of suddenly letting in any students or meddling siblings. "And we do have an anniversary coming up, after all. Five years. Seemed the logical choice."

Erik makes a couple of quite remarkable sounds. Charles can actually tell these aren't words, so he leaves them alone. Finally, he says, "That's less than two weeks away."

Charles is impressed, then instantly disappointed about it. "Ten days."

"You said you weren't expecting me to read the letter until next week."

It's near impossible to convey a shrug over the phone. Given he can't project thoughts or feelings without extra equipment, Charles attempts the feat anyway. "Then you have longer to pack." Not that Erik ever does. Charles endured no end of mockery for his suitcase in the 1960s and the situation hasn't improved once ever since.

"And what should I be packing?"

"Surprise me."

Usually Charles finds that he's been raised to be the sort of polite who only hangs up as a full stop in an argument. This isn't an argument, he doesn't think, and yet he finds the same sort of satisfaction – just for a moment, before the empty feeling comes clawing back again. It's natural, instinctive, but just like that there is no more Erik to listen to. Just the mansion at rest, when he really should be in bed himself. (He rarely is. It's the time difference. He likes knowing when Erik is awake, just in case Erik wants to know the same thing about him too.)

In the seventies, Charles was in Paris without his telepathy and without Erik. Mutants had just been revealed to the wider public and he had been expected to focus on the very far-off post-apocalyptic future rather than Erik succumbing to his worst instincts yet again. It hadn't been until Washington, hearing the raw static of Erik's thoughts once Raven had wrenched off his helmet, that he'd even realised there was anything wrong. It had rather coloured everything in retrospect – how if he hadn't taken the serum, hadn't been weak (not that it was weakness, not really, when Erik had said that he'd been talking about himself and he understands that now), if he'd just been himself he would have seen that Erik wasn't. Captivity changes a man. Captivity and isolation for almost a decade.

The point is that last time Charles was in Paris with Erik, they couldn't have been further apart. They'd barely been the same people. He's not sure quite why that makes it a good idea to visit for this particular confrontation, but maybe he just already associates the City of Love with Erik walking away from him.

Most of the tourist spots in Paris feature overpriced cafés – either that or no cafés at all, as he'd discovered before to his cost after taking a wrong turn near the opera house. Unfortunately the tourist spots are some of the only places he can reliably exit the metro, so he's left trying to find some sort of compromise between a view of the Eiffel Tower and not paying the same price as his hotel room for a half-decent cup of tea. Not that money is exactly an issue, even with most of it going to the school or charities (the Rebuild Genosha fund has enjoyed some very sizeable donations from some not very elaborate pseudonyms), but he knows that Erik will mind, and there's something so distasteful about asking for more money just because you can. The waiters are fine but if he's not careful he can hear the manager and has to restrain himself from leaving a strongly-worded comment directly into the subconscious.

This one still thinks one hot drink should be enough to cover that beverage's taxi fare to Germany but at least the tables have chess patterns etched in. It's a nice touch, the kind he hopes will make Erik smile. Either that or provoke all sorts of commentary, hopefully with that same fondness and softening of the eyes, the lines in the corners where in younger days Erik had none.

He tilts the teapot and curses when only a thin dribble peters out. He didn't think it had been that long.

"Careful, Charles," an achingly familiar voice rumbles. "We wouldn't want you going without."

Speaking of fondness, Charles can feel it pulling at his own mouth, inevitable. "Then perhaps you'd like to get me another."

"We can't all flaunt our wealth," Erik says, but there's none of the bite of the old days, just teasing. He seats himself opposite Charles with the usual flourish, instantly catching the waitress' eye and ordering in fast French. She offers him a far more genuine smile than Charles received (hard to be that offended, Charles’ accent is admittedly atrocious); the tea, when it arrives alongside Erik's smart black coffee, is noticeably improved as well.

Charles takes a long sip, not even minding the sting of the heat against his tongue. It seems far preferable to talking, now that the moment is here.

It doesn't help that Erik is...Erik. Aged ridiculously well, grown into himself and into someone new at the same time, someone confident without the past dragging him back with every move he makes. Every time Charles sees him, it's somehow both an eternity since the last time and barely a moment ago. Time was that Erik seemed like a bad penny. There isn't really a word for how Charles feels about him now. At least, not one that he feels he can use. 

('Husband'.)

Erik stirs another sugar into his coffee and takes a delicate sip. It's criminal, really, and a man at Erik's age should really be cutting back, but it isn't Charles' place to say a word. "I can hear you judging me, Charles."

"I didn't say anything. In any sense."

"It's a figure of speech. You have some exceedingly eloquent eyebrows, at times."

"There's another one, about pots and kettles."

Erik obligingly raises an eyebrow and Charles takes another drink to try to hide his grin.

Usually it's down to Erik to get to the point, to say what nobody else will. Charles would love to let him, but he knows he's being a coward. Erik is already here, on his own request.

He sets the cup down. "Erik. I never did ask your permission, and I'm sorry."

He shouldn't read Erik's mind casually, and technically he doesn't. There's always been that grey area, where Erik thinks a little too loudly, a little too openly. Erik knows exactly what he's talking about, and he decides not to pretend otherwise.

"You're quite right," Erik says and Charles has never felt his heart sink at hearing those words before. Certainly, coming from Erik, it should be reason for rejoicing. "You never did ask."

\---

It's cruel, really. Erik can see that as surely as he can see the way Charles curves in ever so slightly, eyes cast downward rather than challenging him. That said, so is telling someone that you 'need to talk'. Erik has been panicking for well over a week about that, to the point that Azazel has roused himself from his own bliss to threaten to dump him in the ocean. Genosha is still rebuiliding; Charles has the worst timing known to their kind.

Erik lifts the case he brought with him and snaps it open. The assembled chess pieces gleam in the weak Parisian light – the two of them are sitting outside but both in coats and scarves, Erik with a cap pulled low as much in objection to the change in hemisphere as a gesture at stealth – and Erik runs a quick hand over them just to feel the metal rings beneath.

To his relief, Charles' self-effacement is already fading into something more like exasperation. So many complex expressions which Erik has learnt over the years. He wonders sometimes how many of them belong to him alone. "I hardly think we have space, with the tea – "

A flourish of the fingers and another table drags over to them. Charles looks at it, at Erik, and then sighs and repositions himself in his chair. "It's been a long time since I played."

Erik has no idea whether that's true. He doesn't know whether playing Hank counts (no head for reading his opponent), or Jean (ricocheting between too impulsive and too cautious), or Ororo (terrifyingly good grasp of strategy, requiring a greater level of subterfuge and trickery). It could simply be that it's been a long time since they played together. That's certainly true.

(Emma cannot stand chess. Neither can Azazel or Janos. Angel's willing to try, but these days Erik’s best opponent on the island is Psylocke, and there's only so much pontificating glaring you can take in an evening.)

He doesn't say any of this. Instead he says, "I'll go easy on you," and holds out his fists for Charles to choose.

Charles frowns, a sort of bemused smile on his face (naturally, they decided this long ago, didn't even discuss it then) as he looks from hand to hand. Erik smiles at him and lets the smallest sliver of a thought wind between them: _Left_.

Charles' mouth quirks a little. Erik keeps his gaze steady, calm, even if he can't say the same about his mind.

"Different colours?"

"Try harder."

He lets the slightest flash break through. Charles, marvel that he is, catches it. Erik sees the instant the surprise registers, both eyebrows drawn back in an expression that hasn't changed in half a century. You can always tell when Charles has heard something unexpected.

"Erik, what are – "

"Charles." He holds his fists out over the table. "I'm asking."

Despite his past, Erik never minds Charles watching.

"This wouldn't solve anything, you know."

"That's not quite true, is it?"

They'll still be continents apart. However, the more Erik thinks about it, the more it's the lying that gets to him.

He takes a deep breath, doesn't quite close his eyes, and focuses on his feelings for a moment – specifically the many and elaborate and absolute feelings he has whenever he so much as thinks the words 'Charles Xavier'. He thinks about catching glimpses of him, of his name in listings, of his face in interviews. The photo accompanying that blasted fluff piece in the face of an attack. The space in his chest that fills every time.

"Yes, all right, Erik," Charles mutters, drawing back. Erik just smiles, still feeling the traces of Charles' mind inside his own, no matter how much he looks away. The curiosity brushing against each new thought; the bubbling against Erik's amusement at seeing such a noted public figure embarrassed.

Charles does meet his eyes after a moment. His fingers tap against the table, and then he reaches out and taps a hand.

The left one.

There is a chess piece inside, of course. They do still have a great many things to talk about, and chess has always been their way of dealing with the larger issues. This can't be all that different to political drama and moral philosophy.

But around the king is a ring.

"You're supposed to use pawns," Charles tells him.

Erik takes hold of the ring, floating the piece away and to Charles’ side of the table. He offers it, flesh to flesh, and Charles obligingly slides it back where it always has been. Once again, it covers up the white line on Erik’s finger.

"I'd never call you a pawn, Charles."

"I could make a very crude joke there."

"I'd marry you regardless."

Charles' mouth tightens and he pushes the third pawn along out two spaces. Flustered. Excellent.

Erik smirks, and continues the game.

\---

They have their ceremony, finally. The media is not invited. There’s almost a diplomatic incident regardless.


End file.
